For years I suffered with a mental disability. I still do - no one has found
a cure for manic depression (bipolar disorder) yet. During those crisis years,
though, nobody knew anything was really wrong with me. I was experiencing a wild
roller coaster ride of frightening highs and lows that put my life in jeopardy,
but my disability was completely invisible.

Granted, I was behaving rather erratically, flying from New York to Tokyo to
Paris on business three or even four times a month, counterfeiting art and
smuggling tens of thousands of dollars back into the United States. At the same
time, I was drinking heavily and indulging in drugs (self-medicating my mental
illness), engaging in sex with complete strangers that I would meet in bars and
clubs, staying up for days on end, and in general living on the edge ...

Friends and family were convinced I was functioning just fine because I was
efficient, productive and successful - who wouldn't be, working twenty-hour
days? I had everybody fooled with my illness. While my manic depression remained
undiagnosed, I secretly wished that my disability was a physical one - one that
others would notice. Maybe people would be supportive and help me if I had
diabetes or, God forbid, cancer. Maybe I needed to show up to the next family
function in a wheelchair to get somebody's attention. I was helpless living with
this invisible illness.

Once I was diagnosed, though, and given what I refer to as my "death
sentence," things changed quickly. And no, my family and friends did not come
rushing to my side to support me in battling against my illness - somehow I
fantasized that this was going to happen.

All of a sudden I realized the stigma of having a mental illness - it hit me
smack between the eyes. And the stigma was almost as bad as having to come to
terms with the fact that I was mentally ill and needed treatment.

The stigma, I realize now, "started" with me. I initiated it. It was my own
fault and a result of my own naiveté at age 28.

When the doctor diagnosed me and used the words "manic depression" and
"bipolar," I had no idea what he was talking about. "Manic" sounded like
"maniac" and "bipolar" sounded like "polar bear," so I was completely confused
(in retrospect I should have aligned myself with the term "bipolar" then because
of the "polar bear" association, but I didn't).

I was under the impression that the illness was degenerative and that I
probably wouldn't live to see my next birthday. I asked the doctor how many
other people there were like me - 2.5 million people in America alone.

He tried to calm me down and talk me through the diagnosis, but I was
self-stigmatized by my new label. And then, of course, he had to remind me that
I was now part of a category of people called "mentally ill." Oh, God. I was a
lunatic, a freak, a psycho, a crack-up and a mental case.

When I left his office on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and walked home
across Central Park that snowy morning, I imagined being forced to have
electroshock therapy like Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. I
persuaded myself that I was overreacting, taking this too far. That could never
happen to me. But actually, I wasn't taking it too far. Less than three years
later I found myself in the operating room of a psychiatric hospital in
Manhattan, lying on a gurney with electrodes attached to my head and receiving
electroshock treatments - 200 volts of electricity through my brain.

The stigma first hit me from the "outside world" with a little help from the
written prescription my doctor gave me. It was filled out for medications
thought to control my manic depression. The prejudice began then.

On seeing it, my own neighborhood pharmacist remarked, "Your doctor's putting
you on all of this medication? - are you okay?" I didn't respond. I paid for my
four prescription drugs and left the pharmacy wondering exactly what he meant by
"all of this."

Was I some sort of "mental case" because I was now taking four different
medications? Did the pharmacist know something about my condition that I didn't
know? And did he have to say it in such a loud voice, just hours after my
diagnosis? No, he didn't, that was unkind. It seemed that even the pharmacist
had an issue with mentally ill patients, and trust me, mentally ill patients in
Manhattan were the "bread and butter" of his business.

Next I had to tell people about the diagnosis. Scared to death, I waited a
week until I got up the nerve to ask my parents to dinner.

I took them for a meal at one of their favorite restaurants. They seemed
suspicious. Did I have something to tell them? They automatically assumed I was
in some sort of trouble. It was written over both of their faces. Assuring them
that I wasn't, but had some news that might surprise them, I just spilled the
beans.

"Mom, Dad, I've been diagnosed as a manic depressive by a psychiatrist," I
said. There was a long silence. It's as if I'd told them that I had two months
to live (interestingly, the same reaction that I had when my doctor told me).

They had a million questions. Are you sure? Where did it come from? What's
going to happen to you? Although they didn't come out and say it, they seemed
concerned that I was going to "lose my mind." Oh, God. Their son had a mental
illness. Was I going to end up living with them for the rest of their lives? And
of course, they wanted to know if it was genetic. My telling them that it was
didn't exactly make for a pleasant conclusion to the dinner. Not only were they
now faced with the stigma that their son had a mental illness, but the stigma
that mental illness ran in the family.

With friends, it was easier to break the news of my mental illness. They
seemed to know more about manic depression and were supportive of my getting
well and staying on a medication regime. But all hell broke loose when
medication didn't manage my illness and I opted for the last resort -
electroshock therapy.

My friends had had a really mentally ill friend who had to be hospitalized
and "shocked" to maintain an even keel. This was too much for some to handle and
those people simply disappeared. Nobody seemed to want a friend who was now
officially a psychiatric patient and, after electroshock, a certifiable zombie.

In fact, everybody seemed frightened of me, including my neighbours, my
landlord and shopkeepers who I had known for years. They all looked at me
"funny" and tried to avoid making eye contact with me. I, however, was extremely
up-front with them. I told them all about my illness and was able to explain my
symptoms to them as well as my treatment. "Have faith - one day I'm going to be
just fine," I seemed to cry out inside. "I'm still the same Andy. I've just
slipped a bit."

As no one knew much about my mental illness, a lot of people had the attitude
that I had the capability to "kick it" and get better instantly. This was the
most frustrating attitude for me. My manic depression was ravaging my life, but
because nobody could see it, many people thought it was a figment of my
imagination. Soon I started thinking this too. But when the symptoms were out of
control - the racing thoughts, the hallucinations and the sleepless nights - the
fact that I really was ill was reassuring.

The guilt I felt for having a mental illness was horrible. I prayed for a
broken bone that would heal in six weeks. But that never happened. I was cursed
with an illness that nobody could see and nobody knew much about. Therefore, the
assumption was that it was "all in my head," rendering me crazy and leaving me
feeling hopeless that I'd never be able to "kick it."

But soon, I decided to cope with my illness like it was a cancer eating away
at me and I fought back. I dealt with it like it was any old physical illness. I
dumped the stigma and focused on recovery. I followed a medication regime, as
well as my doctor's orders, and tried not to pay attention to the ignorant
opinions from others about my illness. I fought it alone, one day at a time, and
eventually, I won the battle.

Andy Behrman is the author of Electroboy: A Memoir of Mania, published by
Random House. He maintains the website www.electroboy.com and is a mental health
advocate and spokesman for Bristol-Myers Squibb. The film version of Electroboy
is being produced by Tobey Maguire. Behrman is currently working on a sequel to
Electroboy.